The Clutch

by Paul Hoblin

  “Okay, sir,” I say.

  “You’ve got a great arm, son,” he says. “Now’s the time to show it.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  And that’s exactly what I do. Try.

  But as soon as I take the snap, everything goes blurry again. My heart beat is a snare drum. The only thing I can make out are the bodies scrambling to tackle me.

  I tell myself to focus, but before I get a chance to do that I’m on my back with a giant East Elm player lying on top of me.

  Coach calls another pass play, but when I look downfield everything’s a jumble.

  How can I throw if I can’t even pick out the receivers?

  This is what I’m thinking as I lie on my back again and wait for a teammate to help me up.

  The same thing happens on third down.

  It’s not the offensive line’s fault. They’re giving me plenty of time to throw. I’m just too scared? Or overwhelmed? Or . . . something.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my body to cooperate. My eyes won’t work. My arm won’t budge.

  I stand like a statue until I’m finally toppled, over and over, by East Elm players.

  By the fourth quarter Coach has called several more pass plays, but I haven’t thrown the ball once.

  The crowd has gone from chanting my name to total silence. They might as well be watching my funeral.

  Except I’m not dead. Not yet.

  “Hut!” I say once more, backpedaling with the football. By now East Elm’s expecting a pass. Their linemen have their ears pinned back. They’re in attack mode. I barely have enough time to bring the ball to my ear before two of them collide into me from behind.

  From the bottom of a pile of bodies, I look at the sideline and for the first time realize Curt’s there. He’s staring right at me. Fiercely. He looks angry. The hand that isn’t holding a crutch is closed in a fist.

  No, not angry, I think. Determined.

  It makes me feel determined too.

  Here I am, crunched under a pile of huge bodies.

  But somehow, I’m still okay.

  For over a quarter I’ve been crushed and creamed. I’ve been smacked and smeared.

  But I’m still mostly fine.

  Sore, beaten up—but fine.

  All my limbs are intact. I can breathe and blink. Rather than being blinded by adrenaline, I’m now riding high on it.

  For the first time since my first game, I realize, I’m no longer scared.

  ***

  It’s late in the game now—less than a minute to go—and Coach Cole suggests we run the ball.

  “I can do this, Coach,” I tell him. “Give me another chance.”

  “There’s nothing to do, Bailey. The game’s out of reach. I’m sorry I put you in this position, son, but—”

  “I can do this,” I repeat. “Please. I need to do this, Coach.” I look at him and then at Curt, standing next to him.

  Back to Coach. He squints at me and finally nods.

  This time, for the first time, my head and eyes are clear as I drop back. I can see each of my receivers, lumbering down the field. Part of me is conscious of the pocket collapsing around me, but I ignore this part. After all, what’s the worst East Elm can do to me?

  It’s as if everything is suddenly in slow-motion.

  Actually, it sort of is. My receivers aren’t exactly fast runners.

  I wait for them to get open. I wait some more.

  None of them have any separation from their defenders, but I decide to throw anyway.

  Eddie Eagon’s running a post route, one of my favorites. I give the ball some arc, hoping to get it over the top of the defender. It’s a good throw. If he were open, it would have hit him in stride.

  But he’s not open.

  The East Elm corner back gets to the football first and picks it off.

  The crowd breaks its silence in a deafening roar.

  “BOO!” they yell. “BOOOOOOOO!”

  This time it’s not Coach they’re booing. It’s me.

  And I’ve never felt so good in my life. For once they see me for who I am. And I’m okay with that.

  Chapter 19

  I’m still feeling good as I get in my car to drive home. For a full year I’ve had this big secret. I’m not worthy of their hype. I’ve kept the secret because I was afraid of disappointing everyone.

  But now that I have disappointed everyone, all I feel is relief.

  I’m glad they know. Coach asked me to try, and that’s exactly what I did.

  Tried. And failed.

  With everyone watching.

  The fans have every right to be disappointed. The perfect season is gone, and so is the myth that Lance created. But me? This is the first time I can honestly say I’m not disappointed in myself.

  ***

  It’s late when I finally park in our driveway. The TV is on but muted in the living room.

  I’m not surprised to see my mom sleeping on the couch.

  I am surprised to see my dad on the couch too.

  Unlike Mom, he’s awake.

  He gets up as quietly as possible. “Follow me to the kitchen,” he whispers. “I’ll warm up some pork chops for you.”

  I take a seat at the kitchen table. In a voice just above a whisper, I say, “Sorry I’m so late. Did Mom tell you the game didn’t go so hot?”

  “She didn’t have to tell me,” Dad says, futzing with the oven. “I was there.”

  “You were?”

  “Your mother practically picked me up and threw me in the car.”

  “Then you know you were right.”

  Dad looks up from the oven. “About what?”

  “Football being violent or whatever.”

  “Of course football’s violent, Jordan. Everyone knows that. But you’re still in one piece, aren’t you?”

  I look down at my body. My legs are aching and I can already feel bruises developing all over from the sacks I took.

  “Can I ask you something?” Dad says. He opens a cabinet, pulls out a cooking tray.

  “Sure,” I reply, not sure what he’s going to say.

  “Why did you decide to throw that last pass? You hadn’t gotten the ball out of your hand all night, then all of a sudden you did.”

  “I don’t know. I guess it didn’t really matter anymore. I could have done anything and the result would have been the same. I just,” I hesitate, unsure if I should tell him the truth or keep up the charade. “I just wanted to see if I could, you know?”

  Dad nods, opens the oven door, and we stand there in silence for a little while.

  “At first,” Dad suddenly cuts in, “when I saw you getting knocked down on the field tonight, I was worried about you. But then it kept happening, and to my surprise I felt something else.”

  I watch him ladle the sauce and waited for him to continue.

  “Pride,” he says. “There you were, getting back up again. Running on and off the field. I don’t care if you play football or not, Jordan. What I care about is you—and nothing’s going to change that.”

  “I don’t care if you play football, either,” a voice says.

  It’s Mom. She had made her way over from the couch as Dad and I were talking.

  “You know that, right? After tonight,” she says, “I totally understand if you never want to see a football field again.”

  “Actually,” I tell her, “I can’t wait to get back on the field.” For the first time in a while, I’m not lying to them or anyone else about football.

  Chapter 20

  Before I get back to the football field, though, I have two stops to make.

  The first is school.

  It’s Saturday, so I’m worried the school will be locked up. Luckily, a teacher or a janitor must be working today, because the front door is open. When I get inside, I head straight for a wall.

  There’s one reason and one reason only that I’m here. I grab one of the streak! posters and tear it off the wall. Then I grab anot
her, and another. The plan is to keep tearing until the walls are bare.

  “Good idea, dude.”

  Lance is twenty feet away from me. I texted him earlier this morning and told him to meet me here.

  “We need to come up with a brand-new campaign. Maybe something about you making an epic comeback. People love comeback stories.” The words are typical Lance. But they lack his usual vigor. He sounds more sincere than I’ve heard him be in a long time.

  “I don’t think even you could sell that story, Lance.”

  He thinks about it, nods. “You’re probably right. Can I ask you something?”

  I tear off another poster. “Sure.”

  “You never wanted to be a star, did you?”

  “Not really,” I admit.

  “That’s what I thought. Not sure how I missed that all this time.”

  “Not your fault,” I say, ripping away another poster. “I didn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you quit the team for me, Lance. I didn’t want you to think it was all for nothing.”

  Lance doesn’t say anything for a while. The only sound is me tearing up posters.

  “I didn’t quit, dude.”

  I let go of a poster and turn around.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “I didn’t quit. Coach Cole kicked me off the team. I went into his office and demanded that he start you over Curt. He said he’d had enough of me—that no player is bigger than the team.”

  “Why’d you say you quit?”

  “I was too ashamed, dude. Saying I’d boycotted the team sounded way better than admitting I was kicked to the curb. What I could never figure out is why Coach Cole never corrected my story.”

  “He’s weird like that,” I agree.

  We don’t say anything else because there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say.

  Lance steps up to the wall. Together the two of us remove all traces of the Jordan Bailey that Lance spent the last year creating.

  Chapter 21

  The two of us arrive at Coach Cole’s house later that afternoon. When Coach opens the door, I half expect him to slam the door in our faces—or at least Lance’s.

  But he just nods at us and opens the door wider so we can step inside. Even at home he’s wearing his Clover Ridge hat. Is he ever not a coach?

  “I’m actually here to see Curt,” I say.

  Coach points me in the right direction.

  As I walk through the house, I hear Lance awkwardly start talking to Coach. “I’m sorry, sir. I honestly don’t know what else to say.”

  I’m really not sure Lance totally gets how awfully he’s behaved, but it’s a good start, at the very least.

  I reach the living room and find Curt lying in front of the TV, crutches on the floor beside the couch. His left foot is propped on the couch’s armrest. It’s covered to the knee in a cast.

  It’s amazing, though. Even lying down like this, he still looks powerful. His square body takes up every inch of the couch, sturdy even with the cast.

  I should probably say hi first, maybe talk about the weather. But I launch right into the reason I’m here. “It’s my fault you’re in that cast.”

  Curt takes his eyes off whatever show he’s watching. “What?”

  “Your leg. It’s my fault. And I’m—”

  “How do you figure?” he says. “Did you make the mud extra sticky?”

  “No. I—”

  “Did you give me milk with reduced calcium, thus allowing my bones to weaken?”

  “Huh? No, what I’m—”

  “Did you scramble my brains while I was sleeping so I’d make stupid decisions?”

  Honestly, this guy doesn’t pull any punches. This is the second time I’ve tried to be nice to him, and it’s the second time that he’s snapped at me.

  “I let people treat you horribly,” I say, “and you tried to prove them wrong, and now here you are—”

  “Exactly,” Curt interrupts, “I tried to prove them wrong. I didn’t just get on a knee and run out the clock. And now I can’t run out of anything. This is my fault, and I can live with that. What I can’t live with is your weak apology.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Sorry I brought it up. I mean—you know what I mean. I’ll get out of here, okay?”

  I back out of the room.

  “Thanks, though,” Curt says. “For the weak apology, I mean. I don’t accept it, but thanks anyway.”

  I’m 99 percent sure he’s being sincere, so I step back into the living room.

  “So you had a rough time last night,” Curt says.

  “That’s an understatement,” I reply.

  “That’s because you tried to play like me. You can’t do that.”

  “I noticed.”

  “No, I mean, I’m good at keeping the team on the field. Bulldozing my way through the line. If the team needs four yards, I can get us four yards. If the team needs twenty yards, I can get us four yards.” He smiles. “You know what I mean? I’m good at getting first downs, keeping the offense on the field, letting our defense rest. Touchdowns? That I’m not so good at. You may have noticed my pathetic arm.”

  I don’t say anything. It’s one thing for an injured guy to make fun of himself. It’s another thing for you to make fun of him.

  “You should have played your game, man,” Curt says.

  “I tried that. It didn’t work very well, either.”

  “That’s because you didn’t have anyone to throw to.”

  “It was more than that,” I admit, “but that definitely didn’t help.”

  “You need that low-life scumbag right there.” He picks up his crutch and points above me.

  I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, Lance is standing behind me. He steps into the living room.

  “That’s what I was thinking too,” I say. “But only if it’s okay with you and your dad.”

  He doesn’t make eye contact with Lance. “Personally,” Curt says, “I hate Lance Brockman.”

  “Fair enough,” Lance agrees.

  Curt still doesn’t acknowledge his presence. “I hate him more than just about anything I can think of. In fact, there’s only one thing in the world I hate more than Lance Brockman. Losing. We lost last night, and the thought of that hurts me almost as much as my leg. So if you’re saying he can help us win, then my answer is yes. Let him back on the team.”

  Curt still hasn’t made any eye contact with Lance. In fact, he’s not even looking at me anymore.

  “You sure?” a voice booms from behind us.

  I hadn’t notice Coach enter the room.

  “Just don’t expect me to stop hating him,” Curt says. “I’ve been pretending he doesn’t exist for over a year now, and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.”

  “Thanks, dude,” Lance says, and I can tell he’s truly grateful. He even reaches one of his giant hands toward Curt’s shoulder, then thinks better of it.

  Which is probably for the best. Curt’s still holding a crutch, and my guess is he’s not afraid to use it.

  Chapter 22

  “What do you got for us, Bailey?” Lando asks.

  We’re huddled up, trying to catch our breath. It’s third and a long eight yards. Fourth quarter. It’s been a month since we lost to East Elm. In that time, we’ve gotten better and better. Well, okay, I’ve gotten better and better. The rest of the team was already really good.

  This is the sectional finals. Whoever wins this game goes to the state tournament.

  I look at Lance. “Streak?”

  By now Coach has enough confidence in me that I’m allowed to call my own plays.

  To my surprise, Lance shakes his head. “We don’t need that yet. Besides, it’s what they’re expecting. They’ve got two deep in the zone.”

  They is North Rapids, and the reason they’re expecting it is because we’ve already gone deep. Twice.

  “Pitch it on my side to Lester,” Lance says. “I’ll do the rest.”


  I look around the huddle to make sure we’re all on the same page.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “Break!” we shout in unison.

  I walk up to the line, looking to my left and then my right.

  We need to convert this third down. We’re up by three, but if we have to punt North Rapids will get the ball back with plenty of time on the clock.

  I take a deep breath, slow my heartbeat, try to take everything in.

  Instead of the world going fuzzy like it used to, it becomes clearer. Now I can see that Lance is right. North Rapids has two players dropped way back to protect against the long pass.

  I notice the stuff going on off the field too.

  This is an away game, but our fans came out in droves.

  “Clover Ridge!” they shout. “Clover Ridge!”

  I can’t see them, but I know that two of the people shouting are my parents.

  Curt is up there somewhere too. Instead of standing on the sideline, he’s decided to crutch his way up the steps. Up there, he says, he can do a better job analyzing the game. He’s got a walkie talkie that he uses to communicate directly with Coach Cole.

  This one’s for you, Curt, I think to myself.

  Curt said before that I couldn’t play quarterback like he does, and he was right. But in this case I’m going to do my best impression.

  I crouch down under center, say, “Hike!”

  I get the snap cleanly, pivot, and pitch the ball to Ben Lester. He takes off running to the outside.

  It’s not part of the play, but I follow him. It’s what Curt would have done. I lower my shoulder and slam it into a North Rapids player. We both fall to the ground, but I scramble to my feet and run after the play.

  Ben gets the eight yards we needed and is still on the loose.

  Ahead of him, Lance tramples the cornerback and the free safety. I catch up to Lance just as Ben crosses into the end zone.

  About the Author

  Paul Hoblin lives, teaches, and writes in Saint Paul, Minnesota.